A Shot In the Dark
by SuperWhoLockian75
Summary: While Sherlock and John are out chasing a typical criminal in the darkened streets of London, he catches the pair off guard and Sherlock is incidentally injured protecting John. Now it's a matter of time to get Sherlock help before everything goes black and John loses him for good.


The man was fast, but Sherlock was faster and had an enormous amount of knowledge of London's streets and alleys. John was keeping up well enough considering they'd been at his for three blocks now; being in the army will do that for you.

This creep had been another serial killer, mainly of torturing and killing women then leaving clues and a calling card behind, perfect bait for Sherlock. He had figured it out within 12hrs, which led them to chasing the killer down because they always run. _Always_. The only reason he hadn't been tackled by John or Sherlock yet was because he was packing a .45 caliber handgun as well as a small dagger. John could only guess at why he had the knife… and who he used it on, considering the victims always had their throats cut.

John was lagging behind slightly just in case the killer tried anything and Sherlock had disappeared behind an alley corner right on the man's heels. By the time John rounded the corner, Sherlock and the killer were in the middle of a fight; the man trying to get a shot in with his gun and Sherlock deflecting it and eventually throwing it out of his hands. John scrambled to get to it, but found himself tackled to the ground by the man, the wind knocked out of him. Then Sherlock grabbed around the killer's neck in a strangle hold, hoping to make him lose consciousness, but the big oaf brought his arms up and grabbed Sherlock, throwing him aside and releasing John from under him. This gave John an opening to land a few well-aimed punches to his face, sending the killer to the ground dazed and bleeding. While the brute was recovering, John went to Sherlock's side and helped him up. His clothes were a bit crumpled and there was a cut across his left cheek, but other than that alright. John on the other hand now had a few bruises that would be feeling worse the next day.

"Jesus, I'm only two seconds behind you and you decide to get in a fight with the crazy guy with a gun and dagger. You could've gotten yourself killed you know." John lectured while panting slightly.

"Well that's why I've got you now isn't it? This moron was reeking idiocy, you save me from the stupid people, well; you add a couple numbers to the I.Q. at least." Sherlock panted back. "Would you rather I had waited for you?"

"Yes." John found himself saying abruptly. "And thanks, I think…" He hadn't noticed that the killer had recovered behind him and was heading toward him with his dagger, but Sherlock did. _Sherlock notices everything_.

In one quick motion, Sherlock stepped in front of John, sweeping him behind his back to shield him from the impact. In a matter of seconds, the killer had plunged the dagger into Sherlock's abdomen, where it originally would've been John. He let out a pained and ragged cry and John barely realized what happened before it was too late. The killer began to flee with his now bloodied knife, but before he could John had managed to retrieve the .45 and placed a well-aimed shot into the killer's back, causing him to crash to the ground motionless. More importantly though, dead.

"Now stay down you bastard." John said to himself, then realized Sherlock had collapsed to his knees and was trying to breathe, but it came out more like gasps and grunts. "Sherlock!" John went to his friend's aid, immediately taking on the role of doctor.

Sherlock himself barely had time to comprehend what he'd just done out of instinct. He'd seen the brute coming towards John and he reacted without a second thought, placing himself in harm's way to protect his friend; his only friend. Now he was hunched over on the dirty ground of a back alley, bleeding profusely from the newly made stab wound and trying so hard to catch his breath, but his abdomen fought him every step of the way. He'd seen John shoot the killer before collapsing to the ground on his knees, it wasn't in self-defense and Sherlock knew John would have to answer to Lestrade for that, if Sherlock didn't die first. "Good shot." Sherlock managed to say.

"Not the time for small talk, but thanks." John responded back. "I need to look at the wound before you bleed to death." John gently unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt, revealing a 2in long slash in his abdomen that was streaming out blood. "Oh God, this is not good. It's gone deep, into the muscle a few inches probably. We have to get you to a hospital for surgery. Why the hell did you do that Sherlock? Risking your life like that." John asked furiously.

"Because—" Sherlock tried, but breathing let alone speaking was agonizing. "Because… I couldn't let… you die, John. If you got hurt… you're the doctor, not me. It's—agh!—better this way." Sherlock said through clenched teeth, clutching his stomach. He was beginning to feel woozy because of the blood loss and knew he wouldn't be able to stay conscious for long.

"You're unbelievable, Sherlock. How could you possibly think that I'm more important than you are? You're the one with the brains and… cheekbones and you save lives. I'm just the one you use to replace your skull and—" Sherlock had fixed a hand on John's collar and was staring at him with his icy-blue eyes, abruptly quieting John.

"Don't you ever, _ever_, say that you're not important, John. Do you understand me?" Sherlock spoke fiercely quiet to John and John nodded. "Good. Because if it weren't for you, well; I can't imagine how many times I would've died by now." Sherlock said with a slightly sheepish expression that he generally used when trying to convey emotion.

"You have me there. Alright, I don't think we're too far away from the main road, if I can get there fast enough and hail a cab we should be able to get to the hospital fast enough." Then John stopped and said, "You're gonna have to come with me." Sherlock just looked at John.

"Have you gone mad? You expect… me to move like this? I'll bleed out before… we get there." Sherlock was beginning to breathe slowly and heavily and John knew they didn't have long.

"We've got no other choice. The cab's not gonna come here and get you and by the time I would've made it back you either would've died or the cab would be gone. Now shut up and stop arguing, you're dying remember? Don't waste your breath." John suddenly ordered, flashing back to the soldier Sherlock had momentarily forgotten he was. "This is gonna be tedious and painful, but I have faith in you. Now give me your arm." John grabbed Sherlock's left arm and placed it around his neck while bracing his own right arm around Sherlock's waist, this movement drawing out grunts and pained expressions from Sherlock. John all but lifted him off the ground.

Slowly, but surely, the pair made their way down alleys and side streets until they found their way back to the main road, stopping several times so Sherlock could rest against a wall here and there. John was exhausted practically dragging this 6' man all this way, but he wouldn't let him see it. Luckily, at this time of night, there weren't too many people walking around. In fact John thought he only saw one maybe two, which meant no one to stare and get the wrong idea.

Sherlock's shirt and front of his pants were completely ruined from all the blood and he knew he'd get one hell of a scolding from Mrs. Hudson when they got home (which he wouldn't half mind at this point) if the hospital didn't throw the clothes away first. As gently as John could, he lowered Sherlock to the ground and propped him up against a light post, Sherlock still holding the wound at a futile gesture to slow the bleeding. The wound was beginning to clot and Sherlock was glad for that, considering he had no idea how much blood he had left in him. John was looking around the street, but there were no cars in sight, not even some late-night drunk on his way home.

"You've got to be kidding me. Not a damned car anywhere!" John exclaimed angrily. Sherlock, with some effort, checked his wristwatch.

"John." He called, "It's 2 in the morning, there won't be a cab running for hours." Sherlock said exasperated. John looked back at Sherlock and both shared the same thought.

"You haven't got a few hours." John said in a hushed tone, as if he couldn't believe what he was saying. He fished in his jacket for his phone, but couldn't find it anywhere. "Have you got your mobile on you?" He asked Sherlock.

"Yeah, it's in my coat pocket, if you'd be so kind." John gave him a look and retrieved the phone from the coat, only to discover that it had been smashed probably during their scuffle with the killer. "Damn, I liked that model." Was all Sherlock had to say.

"Fantastic, now what?" John looked around fiercely, looking for anything he could use, then his eyes landed on a telephone booth just down the road. He quickly rummaged through his pockets for change and found just enough for a call. John looked back at Sherlock and saw his eyes closed and his head lolled to the side. "Oh no you don't! Sherlock, wake up! Stay with me dammit." John yelled at his friend while shaking him. Sherlock's eyes quickly snapped open with a gasp, then a grunt as he realized how much that hurt.

"Sherlock listen to me, there's a telephone booth right down the street. I've got enough change on me to call 999, but you've got to stay with me. Can you do that? Can you stay awake for me?" John asked Sherlock with pleading eyes. Sherlock looked into those eyes and nodded.

"Yes, I think so. Please… hurry." Sherlock said, the last part nearly a whisper. It was good enough for John. He gave one last look at his pale friend—his ice-blue eyes contrasting with his skin seemed to make them glow—and dashed down the street to the booth. He couldn't seem to open the door fast enough. John shoved the change in and dialed 999, it only took a few seconds before a woman answered on the other end.

"Hello? I need an ambulance down here now, my friend's been stabbed and doesn't have long… how? By a knife, how do you think?..." John continued the conversation, glancing back at Sherlock every few seconds to see if he was still alive. Once he told her the address and the details of the accident, the woman said the ambulance would be there in 10min, which was more likely 15min as John knew too well. He hung up the phone and raced back to Sherlock, his head leaned back against the pole and sweat beaded on his forehead even though it was the middle of winter.

"The woman on the phone said 10min, which may be longer I'll be honest with you." John reported back, kneeling by Sherlock. All he could really do was nod, his face nearly the color of death, but his eyes shining like stars against it. John wondered how on Earth he managed to hold on this long, most people would've died at his point. But then again, Sherlock wasn't like most people. "Let me take another look…" John said more to himself, it wasn't like Sherlock could fight back. He moved Sherlock's hands, which felt more like ice than anything, and looked at the wound. It was covered in wet and dry blood, as was most of his stomach, but didn't seem to be bleeding as bad now. This was good and bad; it was clotting but at the same time he was running out of blood to lose. John looked up at Sherlock and saw that he was looking at him this whole time. There was a fear in his eyes now that John had never seen before; no one wants to die.

"It's gonna be OK Sherlock, I promise." John lied and hoped Sherlock didn't notice.

"Don't… make a promise… you can't… keep, John. I don't want… a lie to be the last thing… I hear from you. Besides, I'm not stupid. I know… my own body." Sherlock struggled to say.

"I know, I'm sorry. But you're not gonna die, I won't let you. So stop talking like you are." John demanded, his eyes starting to tear up, but he quickly blinked them away. "If you're gonna go out, it'll be a grand gesture, not some moron with a dagger and a shitty aim." Sherlock gently laughed at this and John smiled back. "The ambulance will be here any minute, you've just gotta hold on until then." John said trying to reassure him.

"Ambulances don't have operating rooms, which is what I need. Other than suturing me together in the car—" Sherlock stopped abruptly and let out a pained cry, causing the wound to bleed out more. John braced Sherlock's chest with his hand and put another on his back to keep him upright.

"What did I tell you? Don't talk like you're dying, and I know the chances—believe me." John shrugged off his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt, tearing off a strip of cloth from it and pressing it against the wound, Sherlock giving a hiss at the sudden discomfort. From his motions alone Sherlock knew John had done this several times before. "Now keep that there." he ordered, putting his jacket back on over his T-shirt and discarding the ripped button-down.

"I would if I could, but I'm afraid I can't feel my hands—or most of my arms for that matter." Sherlock said and looked at him a moment before holding the cloth for him against Sherlock's abdomen. It wasn't the oddest thing John's had to do for Sherlock, and in all honesty he didn't mind it that much. Here they were, sitting together under a light post. One close to death and the other determined not to let that happen. John had his arm around Sherlock, cradling him almost, and his other hand holding the strip of cloth against Sherlock's stomach. This was something John had done in the past for young, dying soldiers on the field. In a way Sherlock was one of his soldiers; he was certainly young and definitely dying and John couldn't think of anywhere else he'd rather be.

Sherlock felt impossibly cold and couldn't help but shiver, again thanks to the lack of blood in his body. John of course noticed and only hugged Sherlock closer to him and Sherlock was grateful that his only friend was here with him. If this was it, the end, then he would happily die in John's arms; not fussing or arguing that it may be awkward or that it wasn't right, Sherlock just didn't are—not anymore.

"John…" Sherlock began, his breath like smoke in the cold night air. "I'm f-freezing, how m-much longer?" John checked his wrist-watch.

"5min maybe, and I know, I'm sorry. But we'll make it out of this, don't worry. Just keep breathing and try not to focus too much on the pain. Mind over matter, right?" John said with a soft smile.

"Says the person without a giant hole in his stomach…" Sherlock retorted with a small grin. _Witty until the end_, John thought.

"Look, I want you to know that, whatever happens, I wouldn't… I wouldn't have changed it for the world, alright? Nothing at all." John said a bit awkwardly.

"Now look who's talking like they're dying." Sherlock said in his deep, husky voice. "For the record, me neither. And relax would you? You're talking… like it's the end of the world… or something." Sherlock struggled to say at the end, it was getting harder and harder to stay conscious let alone carry on a conversation.

"I know, I know… but it'd feel like the end of the world if you died." John said quietly, then looked away as he realized what he had just said. Sherlock looked at his damaged friend; his John.

"It's alright, John. I understand; no more secrets." John looked back at his dying friend. "And I think I finally understand sentiment now."

"Do you?" John said, skeptical.

"Yes, because I couldn't imagine living without you either." John just looked at Sherlock; at his cheekbones with the cut above one of them, at his strong chin and odd-shaped mouth, and finally rested on those blue eyes of his. Nothing about his face made much sense, except for his eyes which John thought wouldn't look right on anyone else.

"I'm glad we're on the same page then." John said a little breathless and Sherlock smiled; a genuine, all teeth smile and John couldn't help but return it.

Off in the distance, the sound of a siren grew louder and louder and eventually turned onto the street where Sherlock and John were. The red and white flashing lights were a sight to behold at this point and John couldn't have been happier, almost. John looked at his wristwatch again.

"Right on time for once. See, I told you you're gonna be—" John looked back at Sherlock and saw his eyes were closed again and he didn't appear to be breathing. He placed two fingers on Sherlock's pulse on his neck, only to discover he didn't have one. "No. No, no, no, no, _no_! You promised dammit!" John laid Sherlock's body on the ground and began CPR, knowing that no matter how many times he beat on his chest or blew air in his lungs, Sherlock's heart wouldn't start again without blood; but he kept at it until the ambulance pulled up and the EMTs came out with a stretcher. One of them had to pull John back and away as a few others prepared the defibrillator. The sound of the machine charging and the EMT yelling, "Clear!" was the only sound John could hear along with the _'thump'_ on Sherlock's chest as the machine discharged. Several more times they tried this, after every discharge another EMT would physically check Sherlock's pulse, even though the machine's display said it all.

John had been in the army, he'd seen death and blood and heard screams that should've sent him crying in a corner. But nothing—_nothing_—compared to what he was seeing now. It was like slow-motion. He'd lost count of how many times the EMTs shocked his friend's heart, and every time they did, Sherlock's body lunged up with the sudden power in his chest, then dropped back down a half-second later. John never would've thought that that action would disturb him when he'd seen it done several times before. Perhaps it was the fact that it was Sherlock, and no other reason. It was like they were trying to cattle-prod him back to life.

"Please, he's my friend—my only friend—you've got to try one more time." Reluctantly, the EMT charged the machine, yelled "Clear!", and discharged the defibrillator. Sherlock's body lunged upward, then flopped back down again—the machine sounding a high-pitched note after. Nothing. "No…" John whispered and sank to his knees, his face in his hands. "I let you down, I should've… if only you hadn't pushed me out of the way, you bloody idiot!" John yelled at his Sherlock.

Then a strange thing happened, the sound on the machine went from a never-ending note, to a _BEEP… BEEP…...BEEP….BEEP… BEEP_ and eventually a slow but steady rate. John's head shot up at the sudden sound and he fought his way out of the other EMT's grips to Sherlock, checking his pulse himself. To his relief there was one.

"I can't believe it…" One of the EMTs said. "Quick, get him on the stretcher and get an IV in him before we lose him again."

* * *

Sherlock had been in surgery for hours, the doctors doing their best to suture back together what the serial killer did in a matter of seconds; and John knew all too well how tedious and difficult that could be. The ambulance ride back had been touch-and-go for a while since Sherlock's blood pressure and O2 stats were dangerously low, but they did manage to deal with the wound and give him blood. Luckily, when John was on the phone with the operator, he had told her Sherlock's blood type and that the EMTs would be needing it. Now John was sitting impatiently in the waiting room, a bit disheveled with blood on his clothes and some on his hands. It hadn't even crossed his mind that he should clean up a bit.

The main doors leading to the operating room opened and a tired-looking man in scrubs came out. He looked to be in his mid-50s and like he had seen one too many violent cases like this. John quickly stood up and came to attention, an old habit he hadn't quite forgotten.

"Are you Mr. Holmes' friend who accompanied him here?" John nodded, too nervous to speak but he hid it well. "I see, well mister…"

"Watson. John Watson." He quickly answered.

"Mr. Watson, your friend received quite an injury to his abdomen—cutting a great deal into the muscle and just barely nicking his diaphragm. But we did manage to 'put him back together' and he's still unconscious in the ICU where he will remain under constant observation if anything should happen. He will of course have to stay in the hospital for several weeks until the wound heals enough where he can be released." He paused for a moment. "And to answer your other questions, yes you can see him, but not for too long. And he's going to be OK." The doctor gave a weary smile.

"Thank you so much!" John said and before he knew it he was walking/jogging down the hallway to Sherlock's room, trying to not disturb the other patients. He nearly burst out laughing at his room number.

"221, I'll be damned." John smiled and quietly walked inside, there were a couple of nurses recording data, checking monitors and machines and didn't seem bothered by his sudden messy and gruesome appearance. When they had finished, one said quietly to John,

"Visiting hours end in one hour, no longer." And gave him a small smile.

"Of course." And with that he was alone with his unconscious, broken friend. Sherlock was laid neatly on the bed with an IV in one arm and a blood IV in the other, an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose. It was strange, seeing this mighty man like this, vulnerable and weak. He had a heart monitor attached as well and an oximeter on his finger to measure how much oxygen his body was receiving. There was also a small bandage over the cut on his left cheek. John noticed all of this and knew immediately that Sherlock was indeed luckily to be alive.

John brought a chair closer to Sherlock's bed and sat down, all of a sudden feeling exhausted. Before he knew it, he was fast asleep next to the only man he would give his life for.

Hearing John softly snoring, Sherlock opened his eyes and quickly scanned the room to make sure they were alone. He had been conscious not too long after being set in his room, but there was no need for anyone to know. Sherlock did a quick mental check and physiological check to assess the ultimate damage; his abdomen was very sore and ached as well as his back, but that was to be expected. His head was a bit fuzzy from the anesthetic and he generally felt like he'd been running a marathon for three days. All this meant serious hospital time of about 2-4 weeks, something he most certainly wasn't looking forward to.

He glanced over at his sleeping John and it puzzled him. They had built a bond that would take normal people years in a matter of months—maybe even days. There was something unique about them for sure. And when John's life was threatened, Sherlock didn't take a second thought into giving his own life for John's, and that scared him a little. Proper fear, something which Sherlock barely experienced. And yet, Sherlock wouldn't have done anything different if given the chance, and that was something he decided with his heart—not his head.

If he was able to reach out and grab John's hand, Sherlock would've except for the fact that he had an uncountable amount of wires attached to him and he was bone tired; not just because of previous events but because he had to think about things and possibilities he never thought would ever matter. The things that were said between them earlier, was it just because emotions were tense and Sherlock was dying? Or was it something else? He had an idea, but the real question was, when John woke up, where would they go from here? Sherlock didn't know—didn't care at the moment. As long as John Watson was by his side, his personal soldier, then Sherlock knew he'd be OK.

Almost as if on cue, John woke with a start probably from a nightmare he'd been too used to having. He blinked a couple times and rubbed his face, his eyes setting on Sherlock's. He blinked again to make sure he wasn't dreaming then gave a warm smile.

"Hey, you're awake." John said, grabbing Sherlock's hand. Sherlock immediately tensed at the action from instinct, but then relaxed a bit knowing that John wasn't a threat. "Sorry, that's a bit obvious isn't it. Well, the doctor said you'll have to stay here for a few weeks while you heal, which I'm also recommending, so I don't wanna hear you complaining about how bored you are or how everyone here are idiots OK? You can do all that the proper way when you're better." Sherlock nodded and reached up to remove the mask from his face, but John beat him to it. There was something Sherlock had to tell him.

"I'll try very hard, but no promises. Also… thank you." He said, John looked puzzled at the last part.

"For what? You technically died for 3min because of me. If I had watched my back from the start then none of this would've happened." Sherlock just smiled.

"And yet, here I am. _Alive_ because of you. I highly doubt I could've lasted as long as I did without your help, or made it to the street for that matter…" Sherlock trailed off trying to catch his breath. The oximeter machine began to beep next to John as Sherlock's O2 stats began to drop. John placed the mask back on Sherlock's face so he could take a few good breaths so they could continue. The machine wasn't beeping long enough to bring in the nurses but it was close.

"We should talk about this later when you have enough blood in your body to keep oxygen." John said, being the doctor again. But Sherlock shook his head and removed the mask again.

"No, we can't. Screw the doctors, your opinion is the only one I give a damn about." Sherlock said abruptly. "I want you to know that I trust you John, and I… care about you. I know you feel the same, or at least I'm pretty sure you do—"

"I do, don't doubt that." John added.

"Good, I don't. But, well…" Sherlock couldn't quite find the right words and it was evident given the look on his face.

"Hey, it's OK. I know what you mean. Now, stop talking before you pass out." John gestured at the beeping oximeter and placed the mask back over Sherlock's nose and mouth. He glared at John, but that only made him laugh lightly. "Oh, shut up you brilliant idiot." John said as if he could read Sherlock's thoughts. Reluctantly Sherlock closed his eyes and was asleep in a few minutes. When John was sure he was asleep, he said to himself, "I love you, too." and drifted off as well.

Sherlock smiled.


End file.
